Spring, Rockcliffe, early May
After days of sun, mist accumulates
in the land’s dips and hollows
morphing at times into fine rain
and then again into vapour
clinging to plant matter.
In the evening, the rain stops,
the mist lifts and a radiance
is cast here and there over plants
and ground with intense colour
as I walk across the field,
the saturated grass shines
with a patchwork of
water-laden silverweed leaves
the old twisted hawthornes,
so desiccated and gnarled as to be
mistaken for dead during winter
now, in almost unreal contrast burst
with the freshest, most utterly vibrant green.
Larches soft, bright peridot needles
have faded to a relaxing chalky mint
a multitude of droplets caught in its layers,
keeping the forest floor dry within.
Field maples open their rubied leaf tufts,
bare branches of sloes and leafing cherries
are laden with blossom, white and pink
punctuating the scenery with delicate warmth.
The last of the watery glow
cast by the setting sun rests upon
bluebell buds, congregating on every slope
and hill, poised to transform ground
into sea, any day now.